THE mental features discoursed of as the analytical, are, in
themselves, but little susceptible of analysis. We appreciate them
only in their effects. We know of them, among other things, that
they are always to their possessor, when inordinately possessed, a
source of the liveliest enjoyment. As the strong man exults in his
physical ability, delighting in such exercises as call his muscles
into action, so glories the analyst in that moral activity which
disentangles. He derives pleasure from even the most trivial
occupations bringing his talents into play. He is fond of enigmas,
of conundrums, of hieroglyphics; exhibiting in his solutions of each a
degree of acumen which appears to the ordinary apprehension
preternatural. His results, brought about by the very soul and essence
of method, have, in truth, the whole air of intuition. The faculty
of re-solution is possibly much invigorated by mathematical study, and
especially by that highest branch of it which, unjustly, and merely on
account of its retrograde operations, has been called, as if par
excellence, analysis. Yet to calculate is not in itself to analyze.
A chess-player, for example, does the one without effort at the other.
It follows that the game of chess, in its effects upon mental
character, is greatly misunderstood. I am not now writing a
treatise, but simply prefacing a somewhat peculiar narrative by
observations very much at random; I will, therefore, take occasion
to assert that the higher powers of the reflective intellect are
more decidedly and more usefully tasked by the unostentatious game
of draughts than by all the elaborate frivolity of chess. In this
latter, where the pieces have different and bizarre motions, with
various and variable values, what is only complex is mistaken (a not
unusual error) for what is profound. The attention is here called
powerfully into play. If it flag for an instant, an oversight is
committed, resulting in injury or defeat. The possible moves being not
only manifold but involute, the chances of such oversights are
multiplied; and in nine cases out of ten it is the more
concentrative rather than the more acute player who conquers. In
draughts, on the contrary, where the moves are unique and have but
little variation, the probabilities of inadvertence are diminished,
and the mere attention being left comparatively what advantages are
obtained by either party are obtained by superior acumen. To be less
abstract --Let us suppose a game of draughts where the pieces are
reduced to four kings, and where, of course, no oversight is to be
expected. It is obvious that here the victory can be decided (the
players being at all equal) only by some recherche movement, the
result of some strong exertion of the intellect. Deprived of
ordinary resources, the analyst throws himself into the spirit of
his opponent, identifies himself therewith, and not unfrequently
sees thus, at a glance, the sole methods (sometimes indeed absurdly
simple ones) by which he may seduce into error or hurry into
miscalculation.

Whist has long been noted for its influence upon what is termed
the calculating power; and men of the highest order of intellect
have been known to take an apparently unaccountable delight in it,
while eschewing chess as frivolous. Beyond doubt there is nothing of a
similar nature so greatly tasking the faculty of analysis. The best
chess-player in Christendom may be little more than the best player of
chess; but proficiency in whist implies capacity for success in all
these more important undertakings where mind struggles with mind. When
I say proficiency, I mean that perfection in the game which includes a
comprehension of all the sources whence legitimate advantage may be
derived. These are not only manifold but multiform, and lie frequently
among recesses of thought altogether inaccessible to the ordinary
understanding. To observe attentively is to remember distinctly;
and, so far, the concentrative chess-player will do very well at
whist; while the rules of Hoyle (themselves based upon the mere
mechanism of the game) are sufficiently and generally
comprehensible. Thus to have a retentive memory, and to proceed by
"the book," are points commonly regarded as the sum total of good
playing. But it is in matters beyond the limits of mere rule that
the skill of the analyst is evinced. He makes, in silence, a host of
observations and inferences. So, perhaps, do his companions; and the
difference in the extent of the information obtained, lies not so much
in the validity of the inference as in the quality of the observation.
The necessary knowledge is that of what to observe. Our player
confines himself not at all; nor, because the game is the object, does
he reject deductions from things external to the game. He examines the
countenance of his partner, comparing it carefully with that of each
of his opponents. He considers the mode of assorting the cards in each
hand; often counting trump by trump, and honor by honor, through the
glances bestowed by their holders upon each. He notes every
variation of face as the play progresses, gathering a fund of
thought from the differences in the expression of certainty, of
surprise, of triumph, or chagrin. From the manner of gathering up a
trick he judges whether the person taking it can make another in the
suit. He recognizes what is played through feint, by the air with
which it is thrown upon the table. A casual or inadvertent word; the
accidental dropping or turning of a card, with the accompanying
anxiety or carelessness in regard to its concealment; the counting
of the tricks, with the order of their arrangement; embarrassment,
hesitation, eagerness or trepidation --all afford, to his apparently
intuitive perception, indications of the true state of affairs. The
first two or three rounds having been played, he is in full possession
of the contents of each hand, and thenceforward puts down his cards
with as absolute a precision of purpose as if the rest of the party
had turned outward the faces of their own.

The analytical power should not be confounded with simple ingenuity;
for while the analyst is necessarily ingenious, the ingenious man
often remarkably incapable of analysis. The constructive or
combining power, by which ingenuity is usually manifested, and which
the phrenologists (I believe erroneously) have assigned a separate
organ, supposing it a primitive faculty, has been so frequently seen
in those whose intellect bordered otherwise upon idiocy, as to have
attracted general observation among writers on morals. Between
ingenuity and the analytic ability there exists a difference far
greater, indeed, than that between the fancy and the imagination,
but of a character very strictly analogous. It will found, in fact,
that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the truly imaginative
never otherwise than analytic.

The narrative which follows will appear to the reader somewhat in
the light of a commentary upon the propositions just advanced.

Residing in Paris during the spring and part of the summer of
18--, I there became acquainted with a Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin. This
young gentleman was of an excellent --indeed of an illustrious family,
but, by a variety of untoward events, had been reduced to such poverty
that the energy of his character succumbed beneath it, and he ceased
to bestir himself in the world, or to care for the retrieval of his
fortunes. By courtesy of his creditors, there still remained in his
possession a small remnant of his patrimony; and, upon the income
arising from this, he managed, by means of a rigorous economy, to
procure the necessaries of life, without troubling himself about its
superfluities. Books, indeed, were his sole luxuries, and in Paris
these are easily obtained.

Our first meeting was at an obscure library in the Rue Montmartre,
where the accident of our both being in search of the same very rare
and very remarkable volume, brought us into closer communion. We saw
each other again and again. I was deeply interested in the little
family history which he detailed to me with all that candor which a
Frenchman indulges whenever mere self is the theme. I was
astonished, too, at the vast extent of his reading; and, above all,
I felt my soul enkindled within me by the wild fervor, and the vivid
freshness of his imagination. Seeking in Paris the objects I then
sought, I felt that the society of such a man would be to me a
treasure beyond price; and this feeling I frankly confided to him.
It was at length arranged that we should live together during my
stay in the city; and as my worldly circumstances were somewhat less
embarrassed than his own, I was permitted to be at the expense of
renting, and furnishing in a style which suited the rather fantastic
gloom of our common temper, a time-eaten and grotesque mansion, long
deserted through superstitions into which we did not inquire, and
tottering to its fall in a retired and desolate portion of the
Faubourg St. Germain.

Had the routine of our life at this place been known to the world,
we should have been regarded as madmen --although, perhaps, as
madmen of a harmless nature. Our seclusion was perfect. We admitted no
visitors. Indeed the locality of our retirement had been carefully
kept a secret from my own former associates; and it had been many
years since Dupin had ceased to know or be known in Paris. We
existed within ourselves alone.

It was a freak of fancy in my friend (for what else shall I call
it?) to be enamored of the Night for her own sake; and into this
bizarrerie, as into all his others, I quietly fell; giving myself up
to his wild whims with a perfect abandon. The sable divinity would not
herself dwell with us always, but we could counterfeit her presence.
At the first dawn of the morning we closed all the massy shutters of
our old building; lighted a couple of tapers which, strongly perfumed,
threw out only the ghastliest and feeblest of rays. By the aid of
these we then busied our souls in dreams --reading, writing, or
conversing, until warned by the clock of the advent of the true
Darkness. Then we sallied forth into the streets, arm and arm,
continuing the topics of the day, or roaming far and wide until a late
hour, seeking, amid the wild lights and shadows of the populous
city, that infinity of mental excitement which quiet observation can
afford.

At such times I could not help remarking and admiring (although from
his rich ideality I had been prepared to expect it) a peculiar
analytic ability in Dupin. He seemed, too, to take an eager delight in
its exercise --if not exactly in its display --and did not hesitate to
confess the pleasure thus derived. He boasted to me, with a low
chuckling laugh, that most men, in respect to himself, wore windows in
their bosoms, and was wont to follow up such assertions by direct
and very startling proofs of his intimate knowledge of my own. His
manner at these moments was frigid and abstract; his eyes were
vacant in expression; while his voice, usually a rich tenor, rose into
a treble which would have sounded petulantly but for the
deliberateness and entire distinctness of the enunciation. Observing
him in these moods, I often dwelt meditatively upon the old philosophy
of the Bi-Part Soul, and amused myself with the fancy of a double
Dupin --the creative and the resolvent.

Let it not be supposed, from what I have just said, that I am
detailing any mystery, or penning any romance. What I have described
in the Frenchman, was merely the result of an excited, or perhaps of a
diseased intelligence. But of the character of his remarks at the
periods in question an example will best convey the idea.

We were strolling one night down a long dirty street, in the
vicinity of the Palais Royal. Being both, apparently, occupied with
thought, neither of us had spoken a syllable for fifteen minutes at
least. All at once Dupin broke forth with these words:-

"He is a very little fellow, that's true, and would do better for
the Theatre des Varietes."

"There can be no doubt of that," I replied unwittingly, and not at
first observing (so much had I been absorbed in reflection) the
extraordinary manner in which the speaker had chimed in with my
meditations. In an instant afterward I recollected myself, and my
astonishment was profound.

"Dupin," said I, gravely, "this is beyond my comprehension. I do not
hesitate to say that I am amazed, and can scarcely credit my senses.
How was it possible you should know I was thinking of --?" Here I
paused, to ascertain beyond a doubt whether he really knew of whom I
thought.

--"of Chantilly," said he, "why do you pause? You were remarking
to yourself that his diminutive figure unfitted him for tragedy."

This was precisely what had formed the subject of my reflections.
Chantilly was a quondamcobbler of the Rue St. Denis, who, becoming
stage-mad, had attempted the role of Xerxes, in Crebillon's tragedy so
called, and been notoriously Pasquinaded for his pains.

"Tell me, for Heaven's sake," I exclaimed, "the method --if method
there is --by which you have been enabled to fathom my soul in this
matter." In fact I was even more startled than I would have been
willing to express.

"It was the fruiterer," replied my friend, "who brought you to the
conclusion that the mender of soles was not of sufficient height for
Xerxes et id genus omne."

"The fruiterer! --you astonish me --I know no fruiterer
whomsoever."

"The man who ran up against you as we entered the street --it may
have been fifteen minutes ago."

I now remembered that, in fact, a fruiterer, carrying upon his
head a large basket of apples, had nearly thrown me down, by accident,
as we passed from the Rue C-- into the thoroughfare where we stood; but
what this had to do with Chantilly I could not possibly understand.

There was not a particle of charlatanerie about Dupin. "I will
explain," he said, "and that you may comprehend all clearly, we will
explain," he said, "and that you may comprehend all clearly, we will
first retrace the course of your meditations, from the moment in which
I spoke to you until that of the rencontre with the fruiterer in
question. The larger links of the chain run thus --Chantilly, Orion,
Dr. Nichols, Epicurus, Stereotomy, the street stones, the fruiterer."

There are few persons who have not, at some period of their lives,
amused themselves in retracing the steps by which particular
conclusions of their own minds have been attained. The occupation is
often full of interest; and he who attempts it for the first time is
astonished by the apparently illimitable distance and incoherence
between the starting-point and the goal. What, then, must have been my
amazement when I heard the Frenchman speak what he had just spoken,
and when I could not help acknowledging that he had spoken the
truth. He continued:

"We had been talking of horses, if I remember aright, just before
leaving the Rue C--. This was the last subject we discussed. As we
crossed into this street, a fruiterer, with a large basket upon his
head, brushing quickly past us, thrust you upon a pile of
paving-stones collected at a spot where the causeway is undergoing
repair. You stepped upon one of the loose fragments) slipped, slightly
strained your ankle, appeared vexed or sulky, muttered a few words,
turned to look at the pile, and then proceeded in silence. I was not
particularly attentive to what you did; but observation has become
with me, of late, a species of necessity.

"You kept your eyes upon the ground --glancing, with a petulant
expression, at the holes and ruts in the pavement, (so that I saw
you were still thinking of the stones,) until we reached the little
alley called Lamartine, which has been paved, by way of experiment,
with the overlapping and riveted blocks. Here your countenance
brightened up, and, perceiving your lips move, I could not doubt
that you murmured the word 'stereotomy,' a term very affectedly
applied to this species of pavement. I knew that you could not say
to yourself 'stereotomy' without being brought to think of atomies,
and thus of the theories of Epicurus; and since, when we discussed
this subject not very long ago, I mentioned to you how singularly, yet
with how little notice, the vague guesses of that noble Greek had
met with confirmation in the late nebular cosmogony, I felt that you
could not avoid casting your eyes upward to the great nebula in Orion,
and I certainly expected that you would do so. You did look up; and
I was now assured that I had correctly followed your steps. But in
that bitter tirade upon Chantilly, which appeared in yesterday's
'Musee,' the satirist, making some disgraceful allusions to the
cobbler's change of name upon assuming the buskin, quoted a Latin line
about which we have often conversed. I mean the line:

I had told you that this was in reference to Orion, formerly written
Urion; and, from certain pungencies connected with this explanation, I
was aware that you could not have forgotten it. It was clear,
therefore, that you would not fall to combine the ideas of Orion and
Chantilly. That you did combine them I say by the character of the
smile which passed over your lips. You thought of the poor cobbler's
immolation. So far, you had been stooping in your gait; but now I
saw you draw yourself up to your full height. I was then sure that you
reflected upon the diminutive figure of Chantilly. At this point I
interrupted your meditations to remark that as, in fact, he was a very
little fellow --that Chantilly --he would do better at the Theatre des
Varietes."

Not long after this, we were looking over an evening edition of
the "Gazette des Tribunaux," when the following paragraphs arrested
our attention.

"Extraordinary Murders. --This morning, about three o'clock, the
inhabitants of the Quartier St. Roch were aroused from sleep by a
succession of terrific shrieks, issuing, apparently, from the fourth
story of a house in the Rue Morgue, known to be in the sole
occupancy of one Madame L'Espanaye, and her daughter, Mademoiselle
Camille L'Espanaye. After some delay, occasioned by a fruitless
attempt to procure admission in the usual manner, the gateway was
broken in with a crowbar, and eight or ten of the neighbors entered,
accompanied by two gendarmes. By this time the cries had ceased;
but, as the party rushed up the first flight of stairs, two or more
rough voices, in angry contention, were distinguished, and seemed to
proceed from the upper part of the house. As the second landing was
reached, these sounds, also, had ceased, and everything remained
perfectly quiet. The party spread themselves, and hurried from room to
room. Upon arriving at a large back chamber in the fourth story,
(the door of which, being found locked, with the key inside, was
forced open,) a spectacle presented itself which struck every one
present not less with horror than with astonishment.

"The apartment was in the wildest disorder --the furniture broken
and thrown about in all directions. There was only one bedstead; and
from this the bed had been removed, and thrown into the middle of
the floor. On a chair lay a razor, besmeared with blood. On the hearth
were two or three long and thick tresses of grey human hair, also
dabbled in blood, and seeming to have been pulled out by the roots.
Upon the floor were found four Napoleons, an ear-ring of topaz,
three large silver spoons, three smaller of metal d'Alger, and two
bags, containing nearly four thousand francs in gold. The drawers of a
bureau, which stood in one corner, were open, and had been,
apparently, rifled, although many articles still remained in them. A
small iron safe was discovered under the bed (not under the bedstead).
It was open, with the key still in the door. It had no contents beyond
a few old letters, and other papers of little consequence.

"Of Madame L'Espanaye no traces were here seen; but an unusual
quantity of soot being observed in the fire-place, a search was made
in the chimney, and (horrible to relate!) the corpse of the
daughter, head downward, was dragged therefrom; it having been thus
forced up the narrow aperture for a considerable distance. The body
was quite warm. Upon examining it, many excoriations were perceived,
no doubt occasioned by the violence with which it had been thrust up
and disengaged. Upon the face were many severe scratches, and, upon
the throat, dark bruises, and deep indentations of finger nails, as if
the deceased had been throttled to death.

"After a thorough investigation of every portion of the house,
without farther discovery, the party made its way into a small paved
yard in the rear of the building, where lay the corpse of the old
lady, with her throat so entirely cut that, upon an attempt to raise
her, the head fell off. The body, as well as the head, was fearfully
mutilated --the former so much so as scarcely to retain any
semblance of humanity.

"To this horrible mystery there is not as yet, we believe, the
slightest clew."

The next day's paper had these additional particulars.

"The Tragedy in the Rue Morgue. -- Many individuals have been
examined in relation to this most extraordinary and frightful affair," (the word 'affaire' has not yet, in France, that levity of import
which it conveys with us) "but nothing whatever has transpired to
throw light upon We give below all the material testimony elicited.

"Pauline Dubourg, laundress, deposes that she has known both the
deceased for three years, having washed for them during that period.
The old lady and her daughter seemed on good terms-very affectionate
towards each other. They were excellent pay. Could not speak in regard
to their mode or means of living. Believed that Madame L. told
fortunes for a living. Was reputed to have money put by. Never met any
persons in the house when she called for the clothes or took them
home. Was sure that they had no servant in employ. There appeared to
be no furniture in any part of the building except in the fourth
story.

"Pierre Moreau, tobacconist, deposes that he has been in the habit
of selling small quantities of tobacco and snuff to Madame
L'Espanaye for nearly four years. Was born in the neighborhood, and
has always resided there. The deceased and her daughter had occupied
the house in which the corpses were found, for more than six years. It
was formerly occupied by a jeweller, who under-let the upper rooms
to various persons. The house was the property of Madame L. She became
dissatisfied with the abuse of the premises by her tenant, and moved
into them herself, refusing to let any portion. The old lady was
childish. Witness had seen the daughter some five or six times
during the six years. The two lived an exceedingly retired life --were
reputed to have money. Had heard it said among the neighbors that
Madame L. told fortunes --did not believe it. Had never seen any
person enter the door except the old lady and her daughter, a porter
once or twice, and a physician some eight or ten times.

"Many other persons, neighbors, gave evidence to the same effect. No
one was spoken of as frequenting the house. It was not known whether
there were any living connexions of Madame L. and her daughter. The
shutters of the front windows were seldom opened. Those in the rear
were always closed, with the exception of the large back room,
fourth story. The house was a good house --not very old.

"Isidore Muset, gendarme, deposes that he was called to the house
about three o'clock in the morning, and found some twenty or thirty
persons at the gateway, endeavoring to gain admittance. Forced it
open, at length, with a bayonet --not with a crowbar. Had but little
difficulty in getting it open, on account of its being a double or
folding gate, and bolted neither at bottom nor top. The shrieks were
continued until the gate was forced --and then suddenly ceased. They
seemed to be screams of some person (or persons) in great agony --were
loud and drawn out, not short and quick. Witness led the way up
stairs. Upon reaching the first landing, heard two voices in loud
and angry contention-the one a gruff voice, the other much shriller
--a very strange voice. Could distinguish some words of the former,
which was that of a Frenchman. Was positive that it was not a
woman's voice. Could distinguish the words 'sacre' and 'diable.' The
shrill voice was that of a foreigner. Could not be sure whether it was
the voice of a man or of a woman. Could not make out what was said,
but believed the language to be Spanish. The state of the room and
of the bodies was described by this witness as we described them
yesterday.

"Henri Duval, a neighbor, and by trade a silversmith, deposes that
he was one of the party who first entered the house. Corroborates
the testimony of Muset in general. As soon as they forced an entrance,
they reclosed the door, to keep out the crowd, which collected very
fast, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour. The shrill voice,
the witness thinks, was that of an Italian. Was certain it was not
French. Could not be sure that it was a man's voice. It might have
been a woman's. Was not acquainted with the Italian language. Could
not distinguish the words, but was convinced by the intonation that
the speaker was an Italian. Knew Madame L. and her daughter. Had
conversed with both frequently. Was sure that the shrill voice was not
that of either of the deceased.

"--Odenheimer, restaurateur. This witness volunteered his testimony.
Not speaking French, was examined through an interpreter. Is a
native of Amsterdam. Was passing the house at the time of the shrieks.
They lasted for several minutes --probably ten. They were long and
loud --very awful and distressing. Was one of those who entered the
building. Corroborated the previous evidence in every respect but one.
Was sure that the shrill voice was that of a man --of a Frenchman.
Could not distinguish the words uttered. They were loud and quick
--unequal --spoken apparently in fear as well as in anger. The voice
was harsh --not so much shrill as harsh. Could not call it a shrill
voice. The gruff voice said repeatedly 'sacre,' 'diable' and once 'mon
Dieu.'

"Jules Mignaud, banker, of the firm of Mignaud et Fils, Rue
Deloraine. Is the elder Mignaud. Madame L'Espanaye had some
property. Had opened an account with his baking house in the spring of
the year --(eight years previously). Made frequent deposits in small
sums. Had checked for nothing until the third day before her death,
when she took out in person the sum of 4000 francs. This sum was
paid in gold, and a clerk sent home with the money.

"Adolphe Le Bon, clerk to Mignaud et Fils, deposes that on the day
in question, about noon, he accompanied Madame L'Espanaye to her
residence with the 4000 francs, put up in two bags. Upon the door
being opened, Mademoiselle L. appeared and took from his hands one
of the bags, while the old lady relieved him of the other. He then
bowed and departed. Did not see any person in the street at the
time. It is a bye-street --very lonely.

William Bird, tailor, deposes that he was one of the party who
entered the house. Is an Englishman. Has lived in Paris two years. Was
one of the first to ascend the stairs. Heard the voices in contention.
The gruff voice was that of a Frenchman. Could make out several words,
but cannot now remember all. Heard distinctly 'sacre' and 'mon
Dieu.' There was a sound at the moment as if of several persons
struggling --a scraping and scuffling sound. The shrill voice was very
loud --louder than the gruff one. Is sure that it was not the voice of
an Englishman. Appeared to be that of a German. Might have been a
woman's voice. Does not understand German.

"Four of the above-named witnesses, being recalled, deposed that the
door of the chamber in which was found the body of Mademoiselle L. was
locked on the inside when the party reached it. Every thing was
perfectly silent --no groans or noises of any kind. Upon forcing the
door no person was seen. The windows, both of the back and front room,
were down and firmly fastened from within. A door between the two
rooms was closed, but not locked. The door leading from the front room
into the passage was locked, with the key on the inside. A small
room in the front of the house, on the fourth story, at the head of
the passage, was open, the door being ajar. This room was crowded with
old beds, boxes, and so forth. These were carefully removed and
searched. There was not an inch of any portion of the house which
was not carefully searched. Sweeps were sent up and down the chimneys.
The house was a four story one, with garrets (mansardes). A
trap-door on the roof was nailed down very securely --did not appear
to have been opened for years. The time elapsing between the hearing
of the voices in contention and the breaking open of the room door,
was variously stated by the witnesses. Some made it as short as
three minutes --some as long as five. The door was opened with
difficulty.

"Alfonzo Garcio, undertaker, deposes that he resides in the Rue
Morgue. Is a native of Spain. Was one of the party who entered the
house. Did not proceed up stairs. Is nervous, and was apprehensive
of the consequences of agitation. Heard the voices in contention.
The gruff voice was that of a Frenchman. Could not distinguish what
was said. The shrill voice was that of an Englishman --is sure of
this. Does not understand the English language, but judges by the
intonation.

"Alberto Montani, confectioner, deposes that he was among the
first to ascend the stairs. Heard the voices in question. The gruff
voice was that of a Frenchman. Distinguished several words. The
speaker appeared to be expostulating. Could not make out the words
of the shrill voice. Spoke quick and unevenly. Thinks it the voice
of a Russian. Corroborates the general testimony. Is an Italian. Never
conversed with a native of Russia.

"Several witnesses, recalled, here testified that the chimneys of
all the rooms on the fourth story were too narrow to admit the passage
of a human being. By 'sweeps' were meant cylindrical sweeping-brushes,
such as are employed by those who clean chimneys. These brushes were
passed up and down every flue in the house. There is no back passage
by which any one could have descended while the party proceeded up
stairs. The body of Mademoiselle L'Espanaye was so firmly wedged in
the chimney that it could not be got down until four or five of the
party united their strength.

"Paul Dumas, physician, deposes that he was called to view the
bodies about day-break. They were both then lying on the sacking of
the bedstead in the chamber where Mademoiselle L. was found. The
corpse of the young lady was much bruised and excoriated. The fact
that it had been thrust up the chimney would sufficiently account
for these appearances. The throat was greatly chafed. There were
several deep scratches just below the chin, together with a series
of livid spots which were evidently the impression of fingers. The
face was fearfully discolored, and the eye-balls protruded. The tongue
had been partially bitten through. A large bruise was discovered
upon the pit of the stomach, produced, apparently, by the pressure
of a knee. In the opinion of M. Dumas, Mademoiselle L'Espanaye had
been throttled to death by some person or persons unknown. The
corpse of the mother was horribly mutilated. All the bones of the
right leg and arm were more or less shattered. The left tibia much
splintered, as well as all the ribs of the left side. Whole body
dreadfully bruised and discolored. It was not possible to say how
the injuries had been inflicted. A heavy club of wood, or a broad
bar of iron --a chair --any large, heavy, and obtuse weapon have
produced such results, if wielded by the hands of a very powerful man.
No woman could have inflicted the blows with any weapon. The head of
the deceased, when seen by witness, was entirely separated from the
body, and was also greatly shattered. The throat had evidently been
cut with some very sharp instrument --probably with a razor.

"Alexandre Etienne, surgeon, was called with M. Dumas to view the
bodies. Corroborated the testimony, and the opinions of M. Dumas.

"Nothing farther of importance was elicited, although several
other persons were examined. A murder so mysterious, and so perplexing
in all its particulars, was never before committed in Paris --if
indeed a murder has been committed at all. The police are entirely
at fault --an unusual occurrence in affairs of this nature. There is
not, however, the shadow of a clew apparent."

The evening edition of the paper stated that the greatest excitement
continued in the Quartier St. Roch --that the premises in question had
been carefully re-searched, and fresh examinations of witnesses
instituted, but all to no purpose. A postscript, however mentioned
that Adolphe Le Bon had been arrested and imprisoned --although
nothing appeared to criminate him, beyond the facts already detailed.

Dupin seemed singularly interested in the progress of this affair
--at least so I judged from his manner, for he made no comments. It
was only after the announcement that Le Bon had been imprisoned,
that he asked me my opinion respecting the murders.

I could merely agree with all Paris in considering them an insoluble
mystery. I saw no means by which it would be possible to trace the
murderer.

"We must not judge of the means," said Dupin, "by this shell of an
examination. The Parisian police, so much extolled for acumen, are
cunning, but no more. There is no method in their proceedings,
beyond the method of the moment. They make a vast parade of
measures; but, not unfrequently, these are so ill adapted to the
objects proposed, as to put us in mind of Monsieur Jourdain's
calling for his robe-de-chambre --pour mieux entendre la musique.
The results attained by them are not unfrequently surprising, but, for
the most part, are brought about by simple diligence and activity.
When these qualities are unavailing, their schemes fall. Vidocq, for
example, was a good guesser, and a persevering man. But, without
educated thought, he erred continually by the very intensity of his
investigations. He impaired his vision by holding the object too
close. He might see, perhaps, one or two points with unusual
clearness, but in so doing he, necessarily, lost sight of the matter
as a whole. Thus there is such a thing as being too profound. Truth is
not always in a well. In fact, as regards the more important
knowledge, I do believe that she is invariably superficial. The
depth lies in the valleys where we seek her, and not upon the
mountain-tops where she is found. The modes and sources of this kind
of error are well typified in the contemplation of the heavenly
bodies. To look at a star by glances --to view it in a side-long
way, by turning toward it the exterior portions of the retina (more
susceptible of feeble impressions of light than the interior), is to
behold the star distinctly --is to have the best appreciation of its
lustre --a lustre which grows dim just in proportion as we turn our
vision fully upon it. A greater number of rays actually fall upon
the eye in the latter case, but, in the former, there is the more
refined capacity for comprehension. By undue profundity we perplex and
enfeeble thought; and it is possible to make even Venus herself vanish
from the firmament by a scrutiny too sustained, too concentrated, or
too direct.

"As for these murders, let us enter into some examinations for
ourselves, before we make up an opinion respecting them. An inquiry
will afford us amusement," (I thought this an odd term, so applied,
but said nothing) "and, besides, Le Bon once rendered me a service for
which I am not ungrateful. We will go and see the premises with our
own eyes. I know G--, the Prefect of Police, and shall have no
difficulty in obtaining the necessary permission."

The permission was obtained, and we proceeded at once to the Rue
Morgue. This is one of those miserable thoroughfares which intervene
between the Rue Richelieu and the Rue St. Roch. It was late in the
afternoon when we reached it; as this quarter is at a great distance
from that in which we resided. The house was readily found; for
there were still many persons gazing up at the closed shutters, with
an objectless curiosity, from the opposite side of the way. It was
an ordinary Parisian house, with a gateway, on one side of which was a
glazed watch-box, with a sliding way, on one si panel in the window,
indicating a loge de concierge. Before going in we walked up the
street, turned down an alley, and then, again turning, passed in the
rear of the building- Dupin, meanwhile, examining the whole
neighborhood, as well as the house, with a minuteness of attention for
which I could see no possible object.

Retracing our steps, we came again to the front of the dwelling,
rang, and, having shown our credentials, were admitted by the agents
in charge. We went up stairs --into the chamber where the body of
Mademoiselle L'Espanaye had been found, and where both the deceased
still lay. The disorders of the room had, as usual, been suffered to
exist. I saw nothing beyond what had been stated in the "Gazette des
Tribunaux." Dupin scrutinized every thing-not excepting the bodies
of the victims. We then went into the other rooms, and into the
yard; a gendarme accompanying us throughout. The examination
occupied us until dark, when we took our departure. On our way home my
companion stopped in for a moment at the office of one of the dally
papers.

I have said that the whims of my friend were manifold, and that Fe
les menageais: --for this phrase there is no English equivalent. It
was his humor, now, to decline all conversation on the subject of
the murder, until about noon the next day. He then asked me, suddenly,
if I had observed any thing peculiar at the scene of the atrocity.

There was something in his manner of emphasizing the word
"peculiar," which caused me to shudder, without knowing why.

"No, nothing peculiar," I said; "nothing more, at least, than we
both saw stated in the paper."

"The 'Gazette,'" he replied, "has not entered, I fear, into the
unusual horror of the thing. But dismiss the idle opinions of this
print. It appears to me that this mystery is considered insoluble, for
the very reason which should cause it to be regarded as easy of
solution --I mean for the outre character of its features. The
police are confounded by the seeming absence of motive --not for the
murder itself --but for the atrocity of the murder. They are
puzzled, too, by the seeming impossibility of reconciling the voices
heard in contention, with the facts that no one was discovered up
stairs but the assassinated Mademoiselle L'Espanaye, and that there
were no means of egress without the notice of the party ascending. The
wild disorder of the room; the corpse thrust, with the head
downward, up the chimney; the frightful mutilation of the body of
the old lady; these considerations with those just mentioned, and
others which I need not mention, have sufficed to paralyze the powers,
by putting completely at fault the boasted acumen, of the government
agents. They have fallen into the gross but common error of
confounding the unusual with the abstruse. But it is by these
deviations from the plane of the ordinary, that reason feels its
way, if at all, in its search for the true. In investigations such
as we are now pursuing, it should not be so much asked 'what has
occurred,' as 'what has occurred that has never occurred before.' In
fact, the facility with which I shall arrive, or have arrived, at
the solution of this mystery, is in the direct ratio of its apparent
insolubility in the eyes of the police."

I stared at the speaker in mute astonishment.

"I am now awaiting," continued he, looking toward the door of our
apartment --"I am now awaiting a person who, although perhaps not
the perpetrator of these butcheries, must have been in some measure
implicated in their perpetration. Of the worst portion of the crimes
committed, it is probable that he is innocent. I hope that I am
right in this supposition; for upon it I build my expectation of
reading the entire riddle. I look for the man here --in this room
--every moment. It is true that he may not arrive; but the probability
is that he will. Should he come, it will be necessary to detain him.
Here are pistols; and we both know how to use them when occasion
demands their use."

"In (chess), where the pieces have different and bizarre motions, with various and variable values, what is only complex is mistaken (a not unusual error) for what is profound. The attention is here called powerfully into play. If it flag for an instant, an oversight is committed resulting in injury or defeat. The possible moves being not only manifold but involute, the chances of such oversights are multiplied; and in nine cases out of ten it is the more concentrative rather than the more acute player who conquers."

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle created one of the most renowned characters of fiction in his London detective Sherlock Holmes. The socially withdrawn genius appeared in a total of sixty stories, beginning in 1887 and met with increasing popularity by his London audience. The overwhelming majority of the tales stay true to the same format, wherein Holmes's closest, and perhaps only, friend Dr. John Watson is the narrator sharing the tales of Sherlock Holmes and his astounding capacity for deduction while assisting in the solving of crimes in and around London.

What is less well known about the most famous detective is that he was not the prototype for the genre. That honor would fall to Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin, created by American author Edgar Allan Poe in his 1841 publication of The Murders in the Rue Morgue. Dupin is introduced to us by the nameless narrator of the story after a brief treatise (which Poe's narrator goes so far as to protest he is not making) on the differences between analysis and ingenuity. We find Dupin to be a reclusive man, given to vices of the intellect - preferring to read in his study to great hours of the evening before even leaving his home each day.

The story at hand concerns one such evening when, after a walk through town at eveningtime, the duo pick up an evening edition of a local newspaper which contained an article concerning "Extraordinary Murders" in the Rue Morgue, a district of Paris. Dupin becomes quite entranced with the story, occupying himself over the next few days by noting slight and small differences between various printed testimonies. Finally Dupin asks his friend to accompany him to the crime scene itself, the inspection of which leads Dupin to deduce the truth of how the murders could have came to have been committed, all the while without violating any of the corroborated testimony previously given by witnesses in the Rue Morgue.

The Murders in the Rue Morgue is, to be certain, a story from the 19th century. It lacks the efficiency of language which modern literature has become enamored with - which may speak more true about modern audiences than modern authors. The tale is a rather straightforward one, progressing quite linearly along the following schema: preface of Dupin's character, introduction of Dupin, inciting incident (reading the newspaper article together), gathering facts, solving the case at hand, presenting the evidence which led to the deductions allowing for such a solution. There is a quaint appeal to the deliberate pacing of the story, and the restrained approach by which evidence is revealed to the audience. The story is a resounding success, particularly for having been one of the first of its kind, with one bothersome exception: its ending is a twist.

Everyone has read a twist ending. The plot is building, the characters developing, and the entire tale is presenting itself as one thing, it has you leaning left, and then POW! it jumps to the right as the author seemingly recalls "Whoa, wait a minute -- this is supposed to be a horror story!" To this allegation, The Murders in the Rue Morgue must plead no contest. It is most certainly guilty of such a twist ending, to the extent where a first time reader will not solve the mystery based on the evidence revealed prior to Dupin sharing his solution with the narrator. However, it is found to be a no-fault conclusion by this humble reviewer, as including such a large leap of logic in this story served as testament to the radical intellect of Dupin. This testament, speculatively, could be what made Dupin popular enough to return in two further stories: The Mystery of Marie Rogêt in 1842 and later The Purloined Letter in 1844.